Strangers, Again
by LowBreeze
Summary: "Maybe you should run for President, then." A husband to drift apart from, children I never thought I'd ever have, living in a District being built from dust..."Maybe I will." An adaptation of the Trilogy in reverse order, starting from the very end.


_(A/N: Here it is, folks! My idea of what would happen if the Hunger Games Trilogy were done in reverse order, from the end of Mockingjay to the beginning of Hunger Games. Honestly, I'm just winging this, so I might be just as excited as you all about what will happen in the next chapter! So without further adieu...)_

* * *

Maybe I am going insane.

The construction happening outside our bedroom window seems too good to be true. Every morning, I have taken an hour to myself, to sit and watch my neighbors hoist planks of lumber and lay down bricks. From my view on the second story of our home, I can see Peeta sowing seeds for new flower patches, and I can only wish, only hope that everything will get better. With the rise of a new government, my anticipation for the inevitable changes swells up inside of me. What it would do for me and my family.

Life's become so bland. But I know I should be more grateful for what I have: my husband Peeta, and two kids; this house we live in, however, feels so empty. Peeta can hang as many paintings as he wants on the walls, and my children can trample around to their heart's content. Even I can fill the closet with all my knitting, but this home doesn't feel fulfilled. It's not how I imagined it to be.

If I haven't reached insanity yet, I'm sure this dull life is propelling me in that direction.

My hour passes and I meet Peeta in the kitchen, who tries for the first smile of the day.

"Morning," he says with his back to me as he washes his dirty hands of soil. "Should we eat?"

I nod silently and help arrange the plates. The kids are still asleep, but that's hardly ever the reason why our mornings run so quietly. Although we know the other's next move, when to step aside when I want a glass, or when I should pass him the teapot, we've run out of things to talk about. Our love's slowly fizzled these past few years, and I start to question myself: Do I still love you?

"Katniss?" he says as he lightly rests his hand the ends of my fingers, dubious of the physical contact, and a wave of calm washes over me. No, I still do. I'm sure.

"Stop it," we hear a voice whine from down the hall. Our daughter and son prance into the kitchen, fighting with each other, and Peeta and I can't help but laugh. Although she's much smaller than her older brother, she's the one Peeta is forced to separate while I hoist our oldest onto my lap. It's these moment that make our home a little brighter. We let the kids do the talking.

I take the kids to school, and on the way I tell them stories they like to hear over and over again. They especially like the one I made up of the Willow Tree we pass every morning. They enjoy it so much, in fact, that they made it into a song, which they beg me to sing to them before they go to sleep.

"_Are you, are you coming to the tree?"_ he recites happily, swinging arms with me. He peers up at me with his gray eyes. "When can we go see the tree?"

We arrive at the school and I squat down to kiss his forehead, replying, "Someday. I promise," and I repeat it to her as well when she grows needlessly jealous. "You are your father's child," I tell her with a smile.

I shoo him before he's late to class when his younger sister dashes off to meet a blonde little girl wearing a blouse a size too big. After watching them skip to class, I head back to our quiet home. And on my stroll back home, I notice the branches of the Willow Tree sway in the breeze. The sight of it saddens me. There's ropes barring it from any trespassers, and a sign of notice is posted next to it, announcing of its removal due to the construction. It's been there since I was born, and cutting it down will be a day marked in history for me, because, apparently, I grew up playing around it with my own parents. That happy couple that my old neighbors seem to remember so well. The mother and father of mine who used to negotiate cheese buns with me in exchange for my safe climb back down from the top of the Willow. They were happy—are happy, I don't know. Wherever they are…

When I reach home, heart a little battered, Peeta tells me there's a meeting going on in the Square. Mechanically, he places his hand on my back to direct me, but the warm sensation doesn't last too long, and another doubt strikes me. Maybe he doesn't love me like he used to.

Ribbons and clunky lights hang from the buildings. Must be a very special occasion because I can't remember the last time the Square was quite this colorful, granted that there's only yellow and orange twine. Peeta appreciates the color scheme much more than I do, saying how it reminds him of the sun. He flickers his gaze at me and then snaps it back to the decorated podium.

"Morning, all!" the Mayor Undersee greets us. "A very good morning at that! Today, I'm happy to announce Panem's very first government election for President!" The population that's gathered at the Square stirs with whispers. "Now, it's been long overdue but as we construct a better community, it deems necessary to elect a strong leader." He humbly counts himself out as a proper candidate, and says that watching over us is already a headache. A population more than ten times our size? Someone else needs to own up for that grand responsibility.

"And so," Mayor Undersee continues in spite of the curious murmurings, "I would like to introduce you to those running for office: Candidate Coriolanus Snow and Candidate Alma Coin!"

Peeta and I join in on the rising applause when we see an aged man with a rare, white rose pinned to his front coat pocket, and a woman just as experienced with age who has eyes that pale in comparison to our drab decorations. They both look like serious people, a trait in which I don't necessarily look down upon, but something about them makes me uncomfortable.

"Why do we need a President? We are doing just fine without our acting mayor," I say to Peeta.

He shrugs his shoulders, indifferent to the election. "Maybe our District will be in better shape if someone can get the other Districts to unite," he allows. "Let's just hear them out, Katniss."

So we stand there, listening intently to their campaigns. Candidate Coin promises, under her watch, there will be unity among the District. That we would make things work via fair trade, a matter that seems to strike an interesting chord with the people. She lays the promises on thick—more security for the sake of safety, enough food to feel satisfied after every meal, increase in employment. We'd be a well-oiled machine. Based on the commotion, Coin's already swindled her first few votes.

Then, Candidate Snow saunters up, bringing forward the idea of not only a fair Panem, but a much happier Panem. He would do so by merging the schools from each District to one big campus, and teaching every child not one skill, but all skills necessary for optimum production. And to touch on the "happier" aspect of his campaign, he boasts that our televisions will no longer air pure static. He'll personally see to it that the old shows are running again. After a burdensome dispute between Districts 3 and 5, we've either let our televisions collect dust or we have grown used to the white noise cracking in the background. So Candidate Snow's offer certainly excites some of us, those of us who have nothing to do but cook or knit.

Another hour of up-in-the-air guarantees and we are dismissed to our everyday lives. While others go back to their monotonous duties of nail hammering and sawing wood, I head in the other direction. I want to have a word with Snow and Coin. They can't possibly say these things and end up not following through. They seem adamant on making changes. Changes that I, perhaps, have been waiting for.

But when I try to approach the stage where the candidates stood, a man tall in stature blocks me off.

"Finnick Odair," he introduces himself with his hand extended to me. "Campaign Manager for the honorable Candidate Snow." He's haughty and overly confident as he sings his praises. "How can I help you, Mrs. Mellark?"

"How do you know my name?" I ask him, weakly shaking his hand.

"It's my job," he answers, and a smirk appears on his face. "I help Candidate Snow remember all of his future, potential voters. I know everyone's name."

His fact makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight. "I have some questions," I say.

"Well, Candidate Snow is scheduled to leave very soon," Finnick replies. "But he'll come back to District 12 as soon as we finish visiting the others. It was a pleasure, Mrs. Mellark." He bows, and stretches another arm out to the side of me. "Mr. Mellark," he says, once again showing off his impeccable memory. "Vote for Snow!"

With Candidate Snow already departing, I try for his opponent in this election, but Candidate Coin doesn't make much more of an effort to meet the people. Instead she gathers her notes and leaves behind her assistant Plutarch Heavensbee. He's her right hand man, I assume, so I introduce myself, which takes him by surprise. Evidently, he's not used to voters coming up to him.

"Ah, yes, how are you? How wonderful to finally meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Mellark," he says, and it almost sounds scripted. I suppose they're all trained to memorize names and faces.

I nod, acknowledging him. "I was hoping to speak with Candidate Coin about the fair trade with other Districts."

"Maybe I can address your concerns," he deflects. "Unfortunately Candidate Coin is extremely preoccupied with the campaign, as you can imagine."

"Well," I begin, "I wanted to talk about how getting everyone to trade with one another will be close to impossible; it's been years since we've walked into another District. I know the Districts are…" We are detached, but it's a term I'd rather not use because it seems to pair with my parents' absence too well, so I stop myself there. "What does Coin have planned, if you don't mind my asking?"

A wrinkle forms on his brow. "What do you know about the Districts?" Plutarch leans in.

"Nothing, really," I answer. I don't tell him about the disputes that go far deeper than electronics and power.

Peeta speaks up for the first time when I withdraw from the conversation. "We just want to know if any of these promises will follow through," he says, "like the schools. This could be big."

"It certainly is!" Plutarch assures us. "Listen, don't say I told you this but Coin has big plans for us. She's even thinking about creating a new District."

"A new one?" I chime back in. Our population is small enough as it is, and our resources are already sparse. What good would it do? "What, a District…13? Who would move there?"

"I've already said too much." Plutarch smears his hand over his mouth and shakes his head regretfully.

"This shouldn't be some sort of surprise," Peeta retorts. "You need to inform everyone about this. We have a right to know if there's a possibility of boundary changes. We'd all—"

"Not everyone will be allowed to go," Plutarch corrects, and realization slaps him in the face. "I should go."

"No!" I pipe up, taking him by the shoulder before he goes too far. "Are you saying you plan to choose who gets a new life? Do you know how unfair that sounds? I'm not going to stand for his."

Plutarch chuckles, shrugging out of my clutches. "Maybe you should run for President, then," he says.

"She's headstrong enough," Peeta agrees. A meek effort to ease the tension. "Trust me, I would know."

Offended, I stand up straight. "Maybe I will," I declare. Plutarch gawks at me in shock and Peeta blanks; he wants to laugh as far as I can tell, but he heads back to the drawing board when he gets the idea I'm serious. He can't make of what's going on inside of my head, and it's the first time he makes the effort to in a while.

I may not know everyone's name, but I know what they want. And it's exactly what I want for my family. A kind of peace that isn't a miserable or restless one. A day that doesn't feel like a month's time has passed. We are looking for change. For _everyone_, not just a few privileged by whatever standards.

This. This is my purpose.

* * *

_(A/N: I'm still trying to decide whether I should give Katniss and Peeta's children names, since in the epilogue they remained nameless. What do you think? How'd you like the first chapter? Please review!)_


End file.
